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AUTHOR'S  AUTOGRAPH  EDITION 
OF      UPLAND      PASTURES 

THE  EDITION  LIMITED  TO 
TWELVE  HUNDRED  COPIES, 
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THIS   COPY  IS 


UPLAND   PASTURES 


UPLAND  PASTURES 

FROM  A  PAINTING  BY  WILLIAM  KEITH 

-v-,  -   .  • 


UPLAND 
PASTURES 


ADELINE  KNAPP 


(    t';%';  /..  *  •  ;TY 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  SAN  FRANCISCO 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
PAUL    ELDER   AND   COMPANY 
Publishers,   San  Francisco,  Cal. 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
MARY    CURTIS    RICHARDSON 
THIS   SMALL  VOLUME    IS 
AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 


CONTENTS 

The  Beginnings  of  Things 3 

Springtime  Showers  13 

Where  the  Bee  Sucks          ------  23 

Floral  Socialists  33 

Scouring-Weed 45 

Wings  of  the  Morning 55 

An  Idyl  of  the  Hills 63 

At  the  Smithy  Door         -----  71 


"Can  any  man  charge  God  that 
He  hath  not  given  him  enough  to 
make  his  life  happy?  No,  doubt 
less;  for  Nature  is  content  with  a 
little.  *  *  *  What  would  a  blind 
man  give  to  see  the  pleasant  riv 
ers,  and  meadows,  and  flowers,  and 
fountains,  that  we  have  met  with? 
*  *  *  And  for  most  of  them,  be 
cause  they  be  so  common,  most 
men  forget  to  pay  their  praises; 
but  let  us  not,  because  it  is  a  sac 
rifice  so  pleasing  to  Him  that  made 
the  sun,  and  us,  and  still  protects 
us,  and  gives  us  flowers,  and  show 
ers,  and  stomachs,  and  meat,  and 
content,  and  leisure  to  go  a-fishing." 
The  Compleat  Angler. 


THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  THINGS 


'HEN  the  warm  rains  succeed 

W/lpl  winter's  driving  downpours, 
]!jj  and  the  young  grass  begins  to 
mantle  the  meadows  with  ten 
der  green,  is  the  time,  of  all 
the  year,  to  be  out  of  doors.  All 
the  woodsy  places  are  cool  and 
dripping  and  dim  and  delicious.  A  month 
later  they  will  be  not  less  beautiful,  perhaps, 
but  less  approachable.  The  things  of  Nature 
grow  sophisticated  as  the  season  advances. 
In  the  early  springtime  they  are  frank  and 
confiding,  and  willingly  tell  the  secrets  of 
their  growth  to  him  who  asks.  They  have 
time,  in  these  first  beginnings  of  things,  for 
friendly  sociability:  to  show  their  tiny  roots 
and  bulbs,  and  to  let  us  study  the  delicate, 
gracious  unfoldings  of  leaf  and  bud  and  blos 
som.  In  a  few  weeks  they  will  all  be  too 
busy  keeping  up  with  the  season's  swift 
march,  to  stop  and  visit  with  the  even  lov- 
ingest  of  human  friends. 

Do  we  forget,  from  springtime  to  spring 
time,  how  lovely  will  be  the  year's  awaken 
ing  ?  Each  winter  of  our  discontent  I  think 
that  I  remember,  as  my  longing  imagination 
looks  forward,  the  tender  charm  of  the  spring 
time  wonder,  yet  with  each  recurring  year 


it  comes  to  me  as  a  new  and  unknown  joy. 
The  whole  world  seems  to  welcome  the  new 
year-child.  Even  before  the  first  growths  ap 
pear  there  is  a  hushed  awareness  throughout 
Nature  that  moves  the  heart  to  thankfulness 
and  remembered  expectation.  The  hope  of 
springtime  comes  without  stint,  and  without 
fail,  bringing  to  each  one  of  us  the  message 
his  heart  is  prepared  to  receive,  and  quicken 
ing  our  purest,  least  sordid  impulses.  The 
best  that  is  in  us  seems  possible,  in  the  spring 
time.  Who  of  us  does  not  then  dream  that  this 
best  will  yet  gain  strength  to  withstand  the 
heat  and  drouth  of  summer's  fierce  searching? 

We  turn  to  Mother  Nature  like  children 
who  long  to  be  good.  The  worshiping  instinct 
which  lies  deep  within  each  soul  goes  out  to 
her,  vesting  her  with  that  personality  which 
we  have  long  since  pronounced  unthinkable 
when  applied  to  God.  There  is  a  suggestion 
in  the  situation  which  is  not  without  a  certain 
saving  humor  to  relieve  it  from  grotesqueness. 
We  are  not  far  from  a  personal  god  when  we 
send  our  souls  out  in  loving  contemplation  of 
personified  Nature,  yet  we  still  go  on  asking 
if  God  is,  and  if  He  is  Truth. 

Whom  do  we  ask,  and  why  does  the  ques 
tion  rise?  If  God  is  Truth,  He  must  be  uni- 


versal;  and  to  be  perceived  by  each  soul  for 
himself.  If,  then,  I  perceive  him  not,  either  He 
is  not  the  truth,  or  else  I  am  not  simple  and 
sincere  in  desiring  the  truth.  If  He  is  not  the 
truth,  do  I  then  desire  human  persuasion  that 
He  is?  Or,  if  I  am  not  simple  and  sincere,  who 
can  make  me  so? 

Nature  will  help  us  if  we  turn  to  her.  We 
have  filled  our  lives  so  full  of  complexities  and 
problems  that  it  is  well  for  us  to  have  her 
annual  reminder  that,  even  without  our  taking 
thought  about  it,  the  real  world,  that  will  be 
here  when  we,  with  all  our  busyness,  shall 
have  passed  from  sight,  has  renewed  itself, 
and  stands  bidding  us  come  and  find  peace. 

For  Nature  keeps  open  house  for  us,  and 
even  when  we  visit  her  and  leave  a  trail  of 
dust  and  desolation  behind  us,  like  the  stupid, 
untidy  children  we  are,  she  only  sets  herself, 
with  the  silent,  persistent  patience  of  her  age- 
wise  motherhood,  to  cover  and  remove  it. 
Down  in  the  canyon,  this  morning,  among  the 
trillium,  and  loosestrife,  and  wild  potato,  I  found 
the  inevitable  tin  can,  left  by  some  picnicker 
to  mar  and  desecrate  the  landscape,  but  now 
completely  filled  with  soft  brown  mold,  and 
growing  in  it  a  mass  of  happy  green  wood- 
sorrel.  This  is  better  than  going  at  things 


with  a  broom,  gathering  them  up  and  remov 
ing  them  from  one  place  to  another,  which  is 
about  as  far  as  we  humans  have  progressed 
in  our  science  of  cleaning  up. 

I  was  glad  to  welcome  the  trillium.  How 
one  loves  its  quaint  old  name  of  Wake-robin, 
fitting  title  for  this  first  harbinger  of  spring, 
that  comes  to  us  even  before  the  robin's  note 
is  heard!  Many  of  our  common  wild  flowers 
have  several  names,  but  there  is  none  with 
such  invariably  pretty  ones  as  all  ages  have 
united  in  bestowing  upon  Wake-robin.  Birth- 
root,  our  forefathers  called  it,  seeing  the  birth 
of  the  new  year  in  its  early  blossoming,  and 
how  many  generations  have  known  it  as  the 
Trinity-flower!  But  'tis  best  known,  I  think, 
as  Wake-robin,  and  the  very  breath  of  spring 
is  in  the  name. 

A  member  of  the  great  lily  family  is  Wake- 
robin.  It  loves  damp,  shady  places,  and  moist, 
rich  valleys.  On  the  Pacific  Coast  we  do  not 
find  the  typical  Eastern  variety,  but  we  have 
a  variety  of  our  own,  still  unmistakably 
Wake-robin.  Its  color  varies  from  rich  mad 
der  red  to  pale  pink,  sometimes  showing  al 
most  white.  It  grows  from  a  thick,  tuber-like 
root,  and  the  calyx  has,  surrounding  its  three 
red  petals  and  three  green  sepals,  three  broad, 


mottled  green  leaves  which,  for  some  unac 
countable  reason,  our  florists  remove  "when 
they  offer  the  flower  for  sale.  A  strange 
whimsy,  this.  The  poor  blossoms,  thus  de 
nuded,  have  a  bewildered,  self-conscious  air, 
such  as  may  have  been  worn  by  the  little 
egg-selling  woman  of  old,  who  awoke  from 
her  nap  by  the  king's  highway  to  find  her 
petticoats  shorn.  Well  may  Wake-robin  thus 
question  its  own  identity.  It  is  no  longer  the 
trillium  of  the  forest:  it  is  only  the  trillium 
of  commerce,  a  sad,  unlovely  object. 

A  bank  where  Wake-robin  lifts  its  bonny 
head  is  always  fair  to  see.  The  plant  has 
certain  boon  companions  always  sure  to  be 
close  at  hand.  The  Solomon's  seal  is  one  of 
these,  its  roots  bearing  to  this  day  the  round 
marks  imagined  by  the  early  foresters  to  be 
none  other  than  the  seal  of  Sulyman,  the  son 
of  Daoud,  whose  seal  was  the  stamp  of  wis 
dom.  There  is  no  more  exquisite  green  than 
the  beautiful,  shining  leaves  of  this  plant,  with 
its  tiny  white  bells  of  flowers.  It  has  a  near 
relative  almost  always  growing  near  it,  that, 
with  singular  paucity  of  imagination,  our  bot 
anists  have  called  "False  Solomon's  Seal." 

How  we  reveal  our  mental  habits  through 
this  trick  we  have  of  falsifying  the  plants. 


We  say  "false"  asphodel,  "false"  rice,  "false" 
hellebore,  "false"  spikenard  and  miterwort, 
but  the  falsity  is  in  our  own  vain  imaginings. 
The  plants  are  as  true  as  the  earth  that  bears 
them,  or  the  rain  and  the  sunshine  that  bring 
them  to  perfection.  The  Solomon's  seal  is  one 
lily,  the  "false"  Solomon's  seal  another.  Man 
may  be  false;  "perilous  Godheads  of  choos 
ing"  are  his,  but  the  wild  things  of  the  woods 
are  true,  each  in  the  order  of  its  nature. 

There  are  no  complexities  or  subtilities 
about  Wake-robin,  here  by  the  streamside. 
You  may  see  it  at  a  glance,  for  its  principles 
are  brief  and  fundamental,  as  wise  old  Marcus 
Aurelius  bids  us  let  our  own  be,  and  yet  the 
plant  has  had  its  vicissitudes;  has  met  and 
solved  its  problems.  Reasoning  from  analo 
gies,  time  must  have  been  when,  like  others 
of  its  great  family,  it  grew  in  the  water,  float 
ing  out  its  broad  leaves,  lolling  at  ease  on  the 
surfaces  of  swampy,  watery  places  and  still 
ponds.  Times  changed.  Lands  rose  and  wa 
ters  subsided,  and  Wake-robin  found  itself  in 
the  midst  of  new  conditions.  The  problem  of 
self-support  confronted  it,  and  the  plant  solved 
it  by  diverting  from  its  broad,  sustaining  sep 
als  nutriment  to  enable  the  long,  swaying 
stem  to  meet  the  new  demands  upon  it.  It 

8 


still  loves  water  and  seeks  cool,  damp  woods 
and  deep  canyons,  growing  beside  little  streams 
where  it  lifts  its  face  to  greet  the  springtime. 
It  is  probably  not  so  big  as  when  it  rested 
luxuriously  upon  the  water,  but  it  is  Wake- 
robin,  still,  and  it  does  more  than  summon  the 
birds:  it  calls  each  of  us  back  to  Nature,  bid 
ding  us  keep  our  hearts  and  souls  alive  to 
see,  with  each  renewing  of  springtime,  and  to 
love  afresh,  the  miracles  of  Nature's  redemp 
tive  force. 


SPRINGTIME  SHOWERS 


HE  beauty  of  springtime,  like 
the  beauty  of  childhood,  is  al 
ways  new.  All  about  me  the 
things  of  Nature  are  still  in  the 
mystical,  subtile  tenderness  of 
their  young,  green  growth.  The 
golden  days  of  autumn  are  full 
of  their  own  beauty.  The  gray  days  of  win 
ter's  mist  and  fog  have  theirs,  but  there  is 
something  in  the  tender  blue  days  of  the  rainy 
springtime  which  sets  the  heart  apraise,  and 
brings  out  as  nothing  else  can  the  meanings 
of  leaf  and  bud,  of  flower  and  tree. 

It  is  raining  now.  Up  above  me,  on  the 
road,  several  picnickers  who  have  been  caught 
in  this  April  shower  are  hurrying  to  shelter. 
They  look  down  curiously  at  me,  here  under 
the  willow,  and  I  have  some  misgiving  as  to 
whether  they  are  not  setting  an  example 
that  I  should  follow.  But  I  am  sure  that  it  is 
a  great  mistake  always  to  know  enough  to 
go  in  when  it  rains.  One  may  keep  snug  and 
dry  by  such  knowledge,  but  one  misses  a 
world  of  loveliness.  There  is,  after  all,  a  cer 
tain  selective  wisdom  in  recognizing  how  de 
sirable  it  is  to  take  the  showers  as  they  come. 
There  is  something  peculiarly  tender  and 
loving  about  an  April  shower.  One  is  so 

13 


fully  conscious,  even  -while  the  drops  are  fall 
ing,  that  the  sun  is  shining  behind  the  light 
clouds.  And  the  drops  themselves  come  down 
so  gently,  tentatively  offering  themselves,  as 
it  were,  to  the  welcoming  earth — pattering 
lightly  on  the  leaves,  and  softly  rippling  the 
surface  of  the  little  pool  under  the  willows. 
That  is  a  wonderful  sort  of  comparison  the 
Hebrew  poet  gives  us  when  he  likens  the 
teaching  of  truth  to  the  small  rain  upon  the 
tender  herb:  the  showers  upon  the  green 
grass. 

The  young  colt  in  the  stall  yonder  thrusts 
an  eager  head  over  the  half-door,  and  with 
soft  black  muzzle  in  the  air  stands,  open 
mouthed,  to  catch  the  delicious  trickle.  The 
cattle  on  the  hills  seem  glad  of  the  wetting; 
even  the  birds  have  not  sought  shelter,  and 
why  should  I? 

I  love  to  watch  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and 
plants,  in  the  rain.  They  tell  us  so  many  se 
crets  about  the  life  of  which  they  are  a  part. 
Why,  for  instance,  does  this  pond-lily  spread 
out  its  broad,  pleasant  leaves  upon  the  wa 
ter's  surface,  while  its  cousin,  the  wild  onion, 
has  long,  narrow  grasslike  leaves?  Why  do 
the  leaves  of  the  pungent  wormwood,  here, 
stand  rigidly  pointing  upwards,  while  those 

14 


of  yonder  big  oak  are  spread  out  before  the 
descending  rain? 

Watch  the  wormwood.  See  how  the  rain 
drops  quiver  for  an  instant  on  the  tips  of 
the  pinnate  leaves,  then  follow  one  another 
in  a  mad  chase  down  the  groove  that  trav 
erses  the  center  of  each  leaf.  Notice  that 
the  leaf  itself  rises  from  three  ridges  on  the 
stem  of  the  plant,  and  that  between  these 
ridges  lie  shallow  channels  down  which  the 
raindrops  run  to  the  plant's  root.  Now,  we 
can  tell  from  these  signs  what  sort  of  a  root 
the  wormwood  has.  I  never  pulled  one  of 
the  plants,  but  I  am  sure  that  if  we  were  to 
pluck  one  up  we  should  find  it  to  have  a 
main  tap-root,  with  no  branches.  All  such 
plants  have  leaves  pointing  upwards,  and 
grooved  stems,  admirably  adapted  to  bring 
water  to  the  thirsty  roots.  The  beets  and  the 
radishes  afford  us  capital  examples  of  this 
provision. 

This  alfileria  has  another  arrangement  of 
leaf,  for  this  same  purpose.  It  is  a  widely 
spreading  forage-plant,  with  an  absurdly  small 
root.  It  needs  a  great  deal  of  moisture,  and 
so  its  stems  are  thickly  set  with  soft,  fuzzy 
hairs,  which  catch  the  water  and  convey  it  to 
the  root. 

15 


Growing  all  along  the  bank  is  the  little 
chickweed,  with  its  tiny  white  star  of  a  blos 
som.  If  it  were  not  so  common  we  should 
wax  enthusiastic  over  its  beauty,  and  seek  it 
for  our  garden  borders.  This  has  a  running, 
threadlike  root,  "which  receives  the  raindrops 
caught  by  the  stem  in  a  single  row  of  tiny 
hairs  along  its  lower  side,  and  sprinkles  them 
gently  down. 

When  a  plant  has  a  spreading  root  such 
as  the  willow  yonder  sends  down,  the  leaves 
spread  outward  and  downward,  from  base  to 
tip,  letting  their  gathered  moisture  down  upon 
it.  When  the  plant  grows  under  water  its 
leaves  are  long  and  threadlike;  for  the  supply 
of  carbon  is  limited ;  and  they  divide  minutely, 
that  the  greatest  possible  surface  may  be  ex 
posed  to  absorb  it.  If  the  stem  grows  until 
the  leaves  reach  the  surface  of  the  water, 
they  broaden  and  spread  out;  for  here  they 
get  an  abundant  food  supply  which  they  may 
freely  appropriate,  as  none  of  it  need  be  di 
verted  to  build  up  a  supporting  stem.  The 
'water  affords  the  leaves  ample  support. 

The  grasses  grow  in  blades  for  the  same 
reason  that  the  plants  growing  under  water 
put  out  slender,  threadlike  leaves.  The  air 
supply  would  seem  abundant,  but  the  grass- 

16 


leaves  are  many  and  low-growing  plants  are 
numerous.  So  they  divide  and  subdivide,  that 
greater  surface  may  be  presented  to  the  sun 
light  and  the  air.  In  this  form  the  blades  are 
fittest  to  obtain  their  necessary  food  supply  and 
thus  to  survive.  We  see  this  same  tendency 
in  the  leaves  of  the  eschscholtzia,  of  the  but 
tercup  and  of  all  the  great  crowfoot  family. 

Across  the  road  stretches  a  line  of  locusts, 
just  now  in  dainty,  snowy,  fragrant  blossom. 
The  individuality  of  a  tree  is  a  constant  and 
delightful  fact  in  Nature.  The  locust  is  as 
unlike  the  oak  or  the  willow  as  can  well 
be  imagined,  yet  like  them  in  taking  on  an 
added  and  characteristic  loveliness  in  the  rain. 
How  delicately  the  branches  pencil  themselves 
against  the  blue  and  silver  of  the  cloudy  sky 
and  the  dark  green  of  the  orchard  beyond 
them!  The  leaves  have  such  a  purely  inci 
dental  air.  The  lines  of  the  tree  were,  them 
selves,  lovely  enough  in  their  green  and  mossy 
wetness  to  delight  the  eye.  To  deck  them  so 
laceywise  in  an  openwork  of  leaf  and  blossom 
was  beneficent  gratuity  on  the  part  of  Mother 
Nature,  for  the  pleasing  of  her  children. 

Down  below,  where  the  creek  widens,  the 
sycamores  have  grown  to  great  size.  How 
they  help  the  heart,  these  gnarly  giants,  with 

17 


the  "white  patches  against  the  grays  and 
blacks  of  their  rough  trunks!  How  they 
spread  their  branches  against  the  sky  and 
beckon  and  point  the  beholder  upwards! 
These  sylvan  prophets  bear  a  promise  of 
good,  and  demand  of  every  passer-by  the 
query  of  the  wise  old  stoic:  "Who  is  he  that 
shall  hinder  thee  from  being  good  and 
simple?" 

Over  the  rounded  hill,  stealing  softly,  in 
Indian  file,  through  the  mist,  a  row  of  euca 
lyptus  trees  climb,  fringing  up  the  slopes. 
These  ladies  of  the  hilltop  have  a  fashion  of 
growing  thus,  and  in  no  other  position  is 
their  delicate,  suggestive  beauty  more  appar 
ent.  The  eucalyptus  is  an  original  genius 
among  trees,  never  repeating  itself.  It  stands 
for  endless  variety,  for  strong  good  cheer, 
for  faith  that  seeks  and  reaches  and  goes  on, 
never  wavering.  It  blesses  as  well  as  de 
lights  its  friends.  I  love  its  wonderful,  ever- 
varying  leaves,  its  upreaching,  outstretching 
branches,  and  the  annual  surprise  of  its  mys 
tic  blossoming.  Each  tree  is  distinct  and 
individual  in  its  growth,  yet  every  one  is 
typical  of  the  genus. 

It  is  a  tree  of  the  wind  and  the  storm.  See 
how  those  in  yonder  group  sway  and  cour- 

18 


tesy,  bow  and  beckon,  advance  and  retreat 
in  the  light  breeze!  And  the  rain  does  such 
marvels  to  them  in  the  way  of  color,  tinting 
the  leaves  into  wondrous  things  of  glistening 
black  and  silver,  and  bringing  out  exquisite, 
evasive  greens  and  browns,  reds  and  rose 
colors,  tender  blues  and  grays,  from  the  trunks 
and  branches.  All  the  things  of  Nature  are 
for  man's  use  and  joy,  but  perhaps  they  serve 
their  very  highest  use  when  we  return  God 
thanks  for  their  beauty. 

Yes,  I  am  sure  that  there  is  a  wisdom 
wiser  than  the  prudence  which  sends  us  in 
out  of  the  rain.  The  flowers  and  the  grasses 
teach  us  more  than  has  ever  been  put  be 
tween  the  covers  of  books.  The  trees  bring 
us  the  real  news  of  the  real  world  long  before 
they  are  crushed  into  pulp  and  made  into  the 
paper  on  which  is  printed  our  morning  ser 
vice  from  the  scandal-monger  and  the  stock 
broker.  It  was  heralded  as  a  marvelous  tri 
umph  of  modern  ingenuity  when,  the  other 
day,  a  forest  tree  was  cut  down  and  made 
into  paper  on  which  the  news  of  the  world 
was  printed  and  hawked  along  the  streets 
within  four  and  one-half  hours  from  the  mo 
ment  when  the  axe  was  laid  at  the  root  of 
the  tree.  Marvelously  clever,  that,  but  shall  we 

19 


ever  be  wise  enough  to  bring  the  trees  them 
selves  to  the  city,  instead?  If  -we  were  but 
able  to  read  the  message  they  bear,  the  news 
paper  might  go  away  into  outer  darkness, 
whence  it  sprang. 

There  is  a  fearful  moment  of  reckoning  be 
fore  us  should  it  ever  chance  that  when  all  our 
trees  shall  have  been  sacrificed  on  the  altar 
of  the  patron-fiend  of  news,  the  newspaper 
supply  shall  suddenly  be  cut  off  and  vie  find 
ourselves  some  fine  morning,  minus  our  daily 
tidbits  of  shame  and  failure  and  disaster,  left 
to  the  companionship  of  our  own  thoughts. 
Dante  never  imagined  a  terror  like  this. 

But  the  sun  has  come  out  again.  The  rain 
is  over  and  gone.  Only  the  last  treasured 
drops  chase  one  another  along  the  leaves  and 
down  the  stems  of  the  plants.  Our  picnickers 
are  venturing  forth.  The  wet  blades  of  grass 
sparkle  in  the  sunlight.  Over  on  the  bank 
a  ruby-throated  hummer  is  flying  back  and 
forth  across  a  tiny  stream  which  patters  and 
splashes  against  a  rock.  These  morsels  of 
birds  love  a  shower-bath,  and  this  fellow  now 
has  one  exactly  to  his  mind.  The  clouds  have 
drifted  down  the  sky  and  everything  seems 
glad  and  grateful  for  "the  useful  trouble  of 
the  rain." 

20 


WHERE  THE  BEE  SUCKS 


o 


NCE  upon  a  time  man  conceived 
the  belief  that  this  universe, 
with  its  many  worlds  swing 
ing  through  space,  was  created 
for  him.  He  fancied  that  the 
sun  shone  by  day  to  warm  and 
vivify  him;  that  the  stars  of 
night  were  none  other  than  lamps  to  his 
feet;  that  the  other  animals  existed  to  afford 
him  food  and  clothing— and  sport;  that  the 
very  flowers  of  the  field  blossomed  and 
fruited  and  were  beautiful  for  his  gratifica 
tion.  In  fact,  man  conceived  the  belief  that 
instead  of  being  the  wise  brother  and  helper 
of  this  creation  amidst  which  he  moves,  he 
was  the  great  central  pivot  upon  which  all 
revolves. 

A  sorry  lesson,  surely,  for  man  to  read  into 
the  broad,  open  page  of  Nature's  great  book. 
Small  wonder  that  to  him  in  his  meanness 
its  message  came  as  "the  painful  riddle  of  the 
earth."  But  it  was  the  best  he  could  do:  it 
is  the  best  any  of  us  can  do  until  we  have 
learned  the  great  lesson  which  the  ancient 
Wise  One  has  written  out  for  us — which  she 
will  teach  us,  in  time,  through  death,  if  we 
will  not  let  her  teach  it  through  life:  the 
lesson  that  use  is  not  appropriation;  that  ap- 

23 


propriation  sets  use  to  groan  and  sweat  under 
fardels  of  evil. 

We  are  learning  this  lesson,  with  a  bad 
grace,  like  blundering  school  boys,  fumbling 
at  our  hornbook,  stuttering  and  stammering 
over  the  alphabet  of  life,  the  'while  our  minds 
wander  stupidly  off  to  the  playthings  of  our 
unholy  civilization.  Perhaps  some  day  we 
shall  spell  out  a  meaning  to  this  riddle  which 
we  have  made  so  painful,  and  with  the  mean 
ing  get  somewhat  of  the  humility  which  comes 
with  knowing.  But  now  man  does  not  read 
the  book  of  Nature  to  much  better  purpose 
than  he  reads  those  other  volumes,  written 
by  himself,  and  bought  by  himself,  in  bulk,  to 
adorn  his  libraries:  portly  tomes  to  which  he 
may  point  with  pride  as  evidence  that  at 
least  his  shelves  hold  wisdom,  tho'  his  head 
may  never. 

I  use  no  figure  of  speech  when  I  say  that 
we  may  now  buy  our  books  in  bulk.  I  saw, 
only  this  morning,  the  advertisement  of  a 
large  dry  goods  "emporium"  ('tis  laces  and 
literature  now)  wherein  is  announced  for  sale 
the  bound  volumes  of  a  popular  magazine. 
"Over  eight  pounds  of  the  choicest  reading, 
bound  in  the  usual  style— olive  green!" 

Nature  has  olive  greens,  too,  in  styles  usual 

24 


and  unusual,  and  she  has  marvelous  messages 
for  her  lovers,  but  she  cannot  be  bought  in 
bulk,  nor  put  upon  shelves,  nor  even  carried 
in  the  head  until  she  first  be  received  into 
the  heart.  A  little  flaxen-haired  girl  brought 
me,  this  morning,  a  pure  white  buttercup  on 
the  stem  with  three  yellow  ones. 

"See,"  she  said, "here  is  one  buttercup  they 
forgot  to  paint!" 

I  took  the  flower  from  her  hand.  I  could 
not  tell  her  just  how  it  happened  that  this 
one  perianth  was  white,  but  I  explained  to 
her  something  of  how  the  others  came  to  be 
yellow.  What  we  call  a  flower  is  not,  usually, 
the  flower  at  all,  but  merely  its  petals.  The 
real  flower  is  the  cluster,  in  the  center  of  the 
calyx,  of  pistils  and  their  surrounding  pollen- 
bearing  stamens.  Away  back  in  the  ages 
when  man  had  not  yet  developed  his  aesthetic 
sense,  perhaps  even  before  he  had  learned  to 
make  fire,  the  primitive  flower  bore  only  these 
pistils  and  stamens,  with  a  little  outer  pro 
tective  whorl  of  green  petals.  It  was  fertilized 
by  the  pollen  falling  upon  the  pistils. 

But  this  was  not  good  for  the  plant.  Those 
flowers  which  in  some  way  became  fertilized 
by  pollen  from  other  plants  of  the  same  vari 
ety,  by  cross-fertilization,  in  fact,  were  healthier 

25 


and  stronger  than  those  fertilized  by  their 
own  pollen.  In  such  plants  as  wind-blown 
pollen  reached,  this  cross-fertilization  was  an 
easy  matter,  but  the  buttercup  is  not  one  of 
these.  It  is  forced  to  rely  upon  insects  for 
fertilization.  So  the  plant  began  to  secrete  a 
sweet  drop  at  the  base  of  each  green  petal. 
Such  insects  as  discovered  this  nectar  and 
stopped  to  sip  were  dusted  with  the  pollen 
of  the  plant  and  carried  it  to  other  flowers, 
where  it  fertilized  the  pistils,  the  insect  gath 
ering  from  every  blossom  a  fresh  burden  of 
pollen  to  be  carried  along  on  his  nectar-seek 
ing  round. 

This  was  very  good,  so  far  as  it  went,  but 
the  flowers  were  pale  and  inconspicuous,  and 
many  of  them,  overlooked  by  the  insects,  were 
never  visited.  Certain  ones,  however,  owing 
to  accidents  or  conditions  of  soil  and  mois 
ture,  had  the  calyx  a  little  larger,  or  brighter 
colored  than  their  fellows,  and  these  the 
insects  found.  It  happened,  therefore,  if  any 
thing  ever  does  merely  happen,  that  the  flow 
ers  with  bright  petals  were  fertilized,  and 
their  descendants  were  even  brighter  colored. 
Thus,  in  time,  the  buttercup,  by  the  process 
which,  for  lack  of  a  better  name,  we  call  nat 
ural  selection,  came  to  have  bright  yellow 

26 


petals,  because  these  attract  the  insect  best 
adapted  to  fertilize  it.  If  man's  aesthetic  sense 
is  gratified  by  the  flower's  beauty,  why  man 
is  by  so  much  the  better  off,  but  that  man 
is  pleased  by  the  bright  color  is  not  half  so 
important  to  the  buttercup  as  is  the  pleasure 
of  a  certain  little  winged  beetle  which  sees  the 
shining  golden  cup  and  knows  that  it  means 
honey. 

In  the  same  way  the  lupin,  yonder,  with  its 
pretty  blue  and  white  blossoms,  has  devel 
oped  its  blue  petals  because  it  is  fertilized  by 
the  bees.  They  seek  it  as  they  do  other 
blossoms,  not  only  for  honey,  but  for  the  pol 
len  itself,  which  stands  them  in  place  of  bread. 
The  very  shape  of  the  flower  is  due  to  the 
visits  of  countless  generations  of  this  insect. 
The  bee  is  the  insect  best  adapted  to  fertilize 
the  lupin,  and  when  he  alights  upon  the 
threshold  of  a  blossom  his  weight  draws  the 
lower  petal  down,  and  entering  to  suck  the 
sweets  he  gets  his  head  dusted  with  pollen. 
If  a  fly  were  to  gain  entrance  to  the  flower, 
he  would  carry  away  no  pollen.  He  is  smaller 
than  the  bee,  and  his  head  could  not  reach  it. 
So  honey-seeking  flies  alight  in  vain;  their 
weight  is  not  enough  to  press  the  calyx  open, 
so  they  may  not  enter  and  drink  of  its  sweets. 

27 


Yonder  on  a  blossom  of  the  mimulus,  the 
odd-looking  monkey-plant,  a  honeybee  just 
had  this  same  experience.  The  bumblebee  is 
the  only  insect  large  enough  to  reach  the 
pollen  in  this  blossom,  and  so  its  doors  will 
open  only  to  him.  Botanists  tell  us  that  all 
this  great  family,  to  which  belong  the  various 
peas  blossoms  and  their  cousins,  were  once 
five-petaled  plants,  but  natural  selection  has 
brought  about  their  present  shape,  which  is 
an  admirable  protection  against  the  depreda 
tions  of  small  insects  who  might  pillage,  but 
could  not  fertilize  the  flowers.  Blue  is  the 
favorite  color  of  the  honeybee,  and  next  to 
blue  he  prefers  red.  So  bee  blossoms  are 
blue  or  red. 

Most  of  our  small  white  flowers  are  fertil 
ized  by  insects  which  fly  at  night.  This  is  the 
reason  why  white  blossoms  are  more  fragrant 
than  their  bright-hued  sisters.  Bright  colors 
could  not  be  seen  at  night,  but  the  fragrance 
of  the  white  flowers,  always  more  noticeable 
by  night  than  by  day,  serves  the  same  end — 
to  attract  the  useful  insects.  This  is  an  es 
sential  part  of  Nature's  wonderful  plan.  The 
flower  lives  by  giving. 

There  is  an  endless  fascination  in  this 
page  which  Nature  opens  out  before  us,  in 

28 


her  upland  pastures.  A  wise  teacher  once 
told  me  his  experience  with  a  restless,  un 
manageable  boy.  "I  could  do  nothing  with 
him,"  the  teacher  said,  "until  I  got  him  inter 
ested  in  field  life."  One  day  this  boy  went 
off  on  a  holiday  tramp,  returning  the  day  fol 
lowing.  His  teacher  asked  him  what  he  had 
seen,  and  this  is  what  he  remembered  of  his 
outing:  "I  camped  in  a  field  for  the  night," 
said  he,  "and  I  saw  a  bee  light  on  a  poppy 
and  crawl  in.  The  poppy  shut  up  and  caught 
him.  Next  morning  I  woke  up  early  and 
watched,  and  by  and  by  the  poppy  opened 
and  the  bee  came  out." 

There  are  those  who  might  have  missed 
the  sacred  significance  of  such  a  narrative, 
but  that  teacher  was  a  very  wise  man  and 
he  knew  that  the  reading  lesson  given  him 
then  was  a  page  from  his  rough  boy's  soul- 
life,  and  he  conned  it  with  reverent  delight. 
Life  together  was  more  real  for  them  both 
after  that  day. 

The  keener  our  realization  of  the  human 
love  that  is  in  the  flowers,  in  the  trees,  in  all 
the  wild  life  about  us,  the  richer  is  our  hu 
manity,  the  fuller  our  reception  of  life  and 
love,  the  more  thoughtful  our  use  of  all  the 
things  of  Nature  becomes.  Once  I  saw  an 


oriole  weaving  some  bits  of  string  into  his 
nest.  He  hung  head  downwards,  by  one 
string,  from  a  projecting  branch,  and  worked, 
for  nearly  an  hour,  with  beak  and  claws. 
Then  he  flew  away,  triumphant.  Later  I  saw 
his  nest  and  understood  his  action.  He  had 
tied  two  pieces  of  string  together  in  a  very 
respectable  sort  of  knot:  had  wound  the  long 
cord  thus  obtained  in  and  out  among  the 
meshes  of  his  nest,  and  then,  giving  it  a  half- 
hitch  about  a  twig,  had  brought  the  free  end 
up  and  tied  it  securely  to  another  small 
branch. 

I  felt  grateful  for  what  that  bird  had  ac 
complished.  All  human  achievements  seemed 
to  me  worthier  after  seeing  him  do  this  thing. 
Nature  teaches  us  so  much  if  we  will  but 
keep  still  long  enough  to  let  her:  if  we  will 
but  empty  ourselves  of  conceit  and  knowing- 
ness,  and  get  rid  of  the  notion  that  all  things, 
Nature  included,  are  made  for  us.  We  are  not 
the  lords  of  creation.  We  are  only  a  small 
part,  albeit  the  highest  part,  of  it  all,  and  the 
better  we  learn  this  lesson  the  better  men 
and  women  we  shall  become. 


FLORAL  SOCIALISTS 


S  T  S 


WAS  sitting  here  beside  the 
stream,  watching  the  bees 
swarm  in  and  out  at  the  en 
trance  to  their  hive,  when  Her 
cules  passed  by.  "Come  and 
watch  the  bees,"  I  called  as  he 
passed.  "They  are  interesting." 
He  stood  and  studied  the  busy  workers,  intent 
upon  the  business  of  their  miniature  society. 
"  I  wonder,"  he  said  at  last,  "  if  our  human  rea 
son  shall  ever  evolve  a  system  half  so  per 
fect  as  the  one  that  mere  instinct  has  taught 
these  feeble  insects." 

As  I  was  silent  he  continued : 
"  Well,  at  all  events,  I  can  learn  one  lesson 
from  the  bees,  and  be  off  about  my  business. 
If  society  is  ever  to  be  freed  from  its  burdens 
every  soul  must  do  its  full  duty.  One  life 
wasted  means  a  whole  world  hindered  just 
that  much."  And  Hercules  was  gone  to  his 
labors.  How  fearful  we  all  are  of  wasting  our 
lives,  yet  so  rarely  fearful  for  the  results  of 
the  ceaseless  activity  with  which  we  crowd 
them! 

But  Hercules'  words  are  full  of  suggestive- 
ness.  Is  our  boasted  human  reason  really  less 
adequate  to  the  needs  of  our  life  than  is  what 
we  call  instinct,  this  thing  that  looks  so  much 

33 


more  reasonable  than  our  reason,  of  the  lower 
orders?  What  if,  after  all,  we  are  making  a 
desperate  mistake  in  supposing  that  it  is  this 
faculty  which  we  call  reason  which  distin 
guishes  us  from  the  brute  creation! 

It  is  because  the  bees  and  the  other  dumb 
creatures  have  nothing  more  than  this  meas 
ure  of  reason  which  we  call  instinct,  that  it 
serves  them  perfectly.  Man  has  something 
else,  which  draws  him  higher ;  which  prompts 
him  further.  But  alas  for  us!  With  the  des 
tiny  to  live  perfectly  as  human  beings,  we  yet 
long  for  the  restrictions  through  which  we 
may  live  perfectly  as  the  beasts!  We  seek 
our  lessons  from  the  brutes  while  the  Eternal 
waits  to  teach  us.  We  cannot  live  like  the 
beasts.  The  divine  human  spark  within  us 
will  not  let  us.  We  must  live  higher  than 
they  or  we  shall  live  lower,  for  our  perfection 
of  order  is  infinitely  higher  than  theirs,  and 
our  failure  immeasurably  lower  than  they 
can  sink. 

But  we  go  on,  we  modern  Athenians,  seek 
ing  to  ameliorate  the  conditions  we  have 
brought  upon  society  by  our  own  stupid  dis 
obedience  and  inhumanity,  and  only  now  and 
then  do  we  have  a  faint  suspicion  that  our 
newest  thoughts  are  but  mere  rephrasings  of 

34 


ideas  old  as  thought  itself.  Men  get  new  sets 
of  phrases  and  dress  therein  the  ideas  that 
underlie  the  universe.  We  apply  the  terms  of 
science  to  the  old  faiths  and  think  that  we 
have  invented  a  new  religion.  We  find  new 
names  for  God  Himself,  and  believe  ourselves 
to  have  discovered  a  new  life-principle.  Lov 
ing  the  neighbor  becomes  enlightened  altruism, 
and  lo,  faith  is  born  anew,  with  a  subtiler 
power  to  redeem  the  world. 

Hercules  is  a  Socialist.  He  always  spells 
society  with  a  great  S,  and  he  declares  that 
in  the  present  state  of  Society  we  can  take 
no  thought  for  individuals.  "The  individual 
may  perish,"  he  says,  in  moments  of  elo 
quence,  "but  the  integrity  of  Society  must  be 
jealously  maintained." 

I  wonder,  as  I  sit  here  watching  the  bees, 
whether  Society  might  not,  after  all,  find 
easement  from  its  ails  if  each  individual  of 
us,  myself  and  Hercules  included,  should  pay 
strict  attention  to  our  individual  business  of 
growing;  of  becoming  humanized.  Just  here 
at  my  hand  a  bee  has  alighted  and  is  bury 
ing  its  nose  in  a  clover  blossom.  Here  is  an 
example  of  a  life  lived  only  for  Society,  yet 
so  important  is  the  individual  to  this  highly 
perfected  body  social,  that  I  have  seen  half  a 

35 


dozen  bees,  when  a  laden  worker  has  arrived 
at  the  hive  opening,  weighted  down,  too 
exhausted  to  do  other  than  drop,  helpless, 
upon  the  threshold,  rush  to  its  assistance, 
relieve  it  of  its  heavy  load  and  help  it  to 
pass  within  to  gather  strength  for  further 
effort  The  strict  individualist  complains,  in 
turn,  of  the  bees,  because  they  have  no  indi 
vidual  life;  no  existence  separate  from  the 
hive.  But  what  higher  individuality  can  any 
creature  desire  than  is  comprised  and  summed 
up  in  the  divine  opportunity  to  bring  his  indi 
vidual  gift  to  the  common  store? 

I  have  picked  the  clover  blossom  which 
the  bee  just  left.  Beside  it  are  growing  other 
blossoms,  and  I  gather  a  couple.  They  are 
the  veriest  wayside  weeds  —  dandelion  and 
dog-fennel — but  they  are  important  because 
they  are  typical  representatives  of  the  largest 
order  in  the  floral  kingdom;  an  order  which, 
although  it  was  the  last  to  appear  in  the 
vegetable  world,  has  outstripped  every  other 
and  leads  them  all  today.  Botanists  call  it 
the  Composite  Order.  Its  members  are  really 
floral  socialists,  just  as  Hercules  and  the  rest 
of  us  who  believe  that  government  is  an 
order  of  nature,  and  good  for  the  race,  are 
human  socialists,  whether  we  know  it  or  not. 

36 


But  most  of  us  hold  a  mistaken  idea  about 
the  relation  of  the  individual  to  the  whole. 
We  are  apt  to  theorize  that  it  is  the  duty  of 
the  individual  to  keep  the  whole  in  order, 
and  a  good  many  of  us  are  fully  convinced 
that  the  world  owes  us  a  living.  So  it  does, 
and  it  behooves  each  one  of  us  to  be  faithful 
in  discharging  his  individual  share  of  the 
aggregate  debt.  Nature  has  a  whole  page 
about  this,  in  her  wonderful  volume. 

Take,  for  instance,  this  clover.  What  we 
call  the  blossom  is,  in  reality,  many  blos 
soms.  Look  at  the  mass  under  a  glass.  You 
will  see  that  the  clover  head  is  made  up  of 
numerous  minute  cups  in  a  compact  cluster. 
Each  cup  is  a  perfect  blossom.  As  we  now 
see  it  in  the  clover  it  is  a  tiny  tube,  but  it 
once  possessed  five  slender  petals  which  are 
now  united.  The  little  pointed  scallops  rim 
ming  the  cup  suggest  these  petals.  Now,  the 
tiny  cup  is  descended  from  a  five-petaled 
ancestor,  growing  upon  its  individual  stem 
and  depending  upon  insects  for  its  fertiliza 
tion.  The  flower  was  small,  however,  and 
many  of  them  must  have  been  overlooked 
by  the  insects.  But  those  blossoms  which, 
growing  very  close  together,  formed  little  clus 
ters,  were  more  conspicuous  than  the  soli- 

37 


tary  ones,  and  were  discovered,  visited  for 
their  honey  and  incidentally  fertilized  by 
the  winged  freebooters.  They  bore  fruit,  and 
their  descendants  inherited  the  social  instinct 
prompting  them  to  draw  together  that  each 
might  give  the  other  its  help  and  coopera 
tion  in  attracting  the  insects.  So,  by  degrees, 
the  cooperative  habit  became  fixed  in  the 
clover,  and  in  many  other  plants,  until  the 
compositae  became  a  botanical  fact. 

In  other  words,  the  individuals  formed  a 
body  social  of  their  own,  growing  from  a 
compact  cluster  from  a  common  stem,  each 
giving  and  receiving,  constantly,  its  use  and 
share  in  the  common  life.  The  many-petaled 
flowers  found  it  inconvenient  to  arrange  them 
selves  in  the  composite  order,  and  so,  as  we 
see  in  the  clover,  the  petals  have  pressed 
closely  together  and  united  to  form  a  tube- 
shaped  flower,  and  as  the  tubular  form  is 
best  adapted  to  receive  fertilization  by  the 
bee,  which  insect  is  the  most  useful  to  the 
clover  blossom,  that  form  has  been  perpetu 
ated  in  this  plant. 

Thus  by  the  simple  process  of  each  indi 
vidual  giving  itself  to  the  common  life,  the 
mutual  protection  and  development  of  the 
whole,  this  order  of  plants  has  become  the 

38 


largest  in  the  floral  kingdom.  The  compos- 
itae  have  circled  the  globe.  They  fill  our  hot 
houses  and  flourish  in  our  gardens;  they 
greet  us  by  the  dusty  road,  and  in  the  sum 
mer  woods.  The  lovely  golden-rods,  the  sturdy 
asters,  the  aristocratic  chrysanthemums,  the 
dainty  daisies  all  belong  to  this  great  order. 
So  does  helianthus,  the  big,  beaming  sun 
flower. 

It  is  quite  true  that  each  blossom  of  the 
composite  has  given  its  life  to  the  race.  But 
what  if,  after  all,  life  with  our  fellows  is  a 
giving  instead  of  the  receiving  we  are  wont 
to  think  it?  What  if,  after  all,  the  true  out 
look  upon  Society  will  one  day  show  us  that 
our  neighbor  is  put  here  that  we  may  have  the 
great,  the  inestimable  joy  of  living  for  him? 

All  matter  is  made  up  of  molecules,  Sci 
ence  tells  us,  and  there  is  another  Voice  as 
of  One  having  Authority,  which  tells  us  that 
God  hath  made  of  one  blood  all  nations  of 
men  for  to  dwell  upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 
We  humans  are  but  larger  molecules  in  the 
body  social.  We  live  only  in  so  far  as  the 
common  life  flows  through  us.  We  move 
freely,  in  our  places,  and  by  a  wonderful  pro 
vision  of  Divine  Wisdom  we  cannot  give  one 
another  that  which  is  really  and  unmistak- 

39 


ably  our  own.  No  human  thought,  even,  ever 
traveled  a  straight  course  from  one  human 
soul  to  another  and  was  received  exactly  as 
it  was  sent.  We  live  our  lives  each  within 
the  molecular  envelope  of  his  individual  body, 
and  we  can  no  more  mix,  in  reality,  than  the 
molecules  mix.  We  live  only  in  the  flux  and 
reflux  of  the  Life  of  all,  and  only  as  we  pass 
this  on  have  power  to  receive. 

It  is  when  life  is  fullest  that  we  turn  to 
our  fellows.  Those  of  us  who  are  true  know 
that  then  we  need  them  most,  and  so  our 
real  drawings  together  are  in  order  that  we 
may  give.  We  know  this,  in  that  secret  part 
of  us  where  lies  what  most  of  us  call  our 
human  weakness,  but  we  are  faithless  to  the 
knowledge,  and  choose  to  live  on  a  lower 
plane,  within  that  outer  circle  which  we  call 
knowing.  We  profess  that  we  come  together 
to  receive,  but  who  of  us  does  not  know  the 
emptiness  of  death  which  lies  in  such  com 
ing?  We  are  all  a  little  better  than  this.  In 
secret  we  know  that  it  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive,  but  we  are  ashamed  of 
our  knowledge. 

We  are  less  simple  and  true  than  the  dan 
delion,  the  dog-fennel  and  the  sweet-clover 
here  hi  the  grass.  The  small,  common  bios- 

40 


soms  grow  so  cheerily  one  is  glad  to  come 
back  to  them.  It  is  true  that  not  one  wee 
tube  or  strap  or  head  in  any  cluster  could 
have  much  life  outside  the  aggregate  blos 
som,  but  the  integrity  and  perfection  of  each 
is  an  essential  factor  in  the  integrity  and 
perfection  of  the  whole.  The  tiny  single 
flower  that  I  can  pull  from  this  dandelion 
seems  but  an  insignificant  speck,  but,  by  and 
by,  could  it  have  been  let  alone,  it  would,  its 
ripeness  and  perfection  attained,  have  taken 
to  itself  wings  and  sailed  fluffily  off  upon  the 
breeze  to  renew  its  life,  perhaps  a  thousand 
miles  from  here.  Seeing  it  float  through  the 
air,  a  poet  might  have  found  it  a  theme  for  a 
sonnet ;  a  scientist  might  have  seen  universal 
law  embodied  in  its  structure,  or  a  seer  have 
reasoned  from  it  to  Life  Eternal. 

Yet,  but  for  the  cooperation  of  its  fellows 
in  the  body  floral,  it  could  not  have  lived 
any  more  than,  save  for  its  fellows,  what  we 
know  as  the  dandelion  could  have  lived. 

The  law  of  cooperation,  like  all  of  Nature's 
laws,  makes  for  lightness  and  fitness  all 
along  the  line.  Nature  teaches  us,  with  ever- 
repeated  emphasis,  the  lesson  of  interdepend 
ence  of  kind.  The  isolated  being  is,  every 
where,  the  comparatively  helpless  being.  The 

41 


tree  growing  by  itself  in  the  open  field  often 
attains  to  more  symmetrical  perfection  and 
beauty  than  the  tree  in  the  crowded  forest, 
but  woodsmen  tell  us  that  the  forest  tree 
makes  the  better  timber. 

We  must  live  with  and  for  our  fellows, 
but  he  does  this  best  who,  in  the  quiet  order 
of  the  common  life,  opens  widest  his  soul  to 
the  Source  thereof,  and  growing  to  the  full 
stature  of  a  man  helps  on  to  perfection  the 
composite  flower  of  our  human  civilization. 


42 


SCOURING-WEED 


HE  little  spring  here  gushes 
up  and  sweeps  away  along 
a  stony  bed  overgrown  with 
brakes  and  tares.  On  its  mar 
gin,  amid  a  tangle  of  wild 
blackberry,  I  have  come  upon 
a  forest  of  scouring-rush.  It  is 
a  quaint  growth.  I  love  to  put  my  face  close 
to  the  earth  and,  looking  through  the  rushes' 
green  stems,  to  fancy  myself  a  wee  brownie, 
wandering  among  a  dense  wilderness  of  pines. 
The  development  of  the  miniature  trees  is  an 
interesting  process.  First  the  ground  is  cov 
ered  with  slender  brown  fingers  thrusting  up 
through  the  soil.  These  grow  rapidly,  and  in 
a  few  days  spread  out  their  brief,  verticillate 
branches  to  the  breeze,  as  proudly  as  any 
great  tree  might  do.  Here  is  a  tiny  finger 
just  pointing  upward;  yonder  towers  the  giant 
of  the  liliputian  forest,  fully  half  a  foot  high. 
"Scouring- weed,"  says  the  farmer,  contempt 
uously,  "they  ain't  no  good.  Some  call  'em 
horsetail." 

In  fact  the  queer,  witchy  little  things  have 
a  number  of  names:  candle-rush,  scouring- 
rush,  horsetail,  and  their  own  proper  appella 
tion,  equisitum.  I  have  gathered  a  number 
of  the  little  trees,  and  they  lie  side  by  side  in 

45 


my  palm  -while  my  mind  tries  to  recall  a  few 
of  the  facts  which  go  to  make  up  the  plant's 
wonderful  history. 

Our  grandmothers  used  to  strew  their 
floors  with  it,  that  no  careless  tread  might 
soil  the  snowy  boards.  They  used  it,  as  well, 
for  scouring,  hence  its  name.  Those  who  seek 
correspondences  between  the  natural  and 
physical  kingdoms  find  the  rush  an  emblem 
of  cleansing,  and  this  is  precisely  the  office 
which,  since  earliest  creation,  it  has  filled  for 
the  world. 

For  our  scouring-rush  was  not  always  the 
puny,  insignificant  thing  we  see  it.  It  belongs 
to  the  carboniferous  age.  It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  our  modern  civilization.  It  had  reached 
its  highest  perfection  and  entered  upon  its 
downward  career  before  man  appeared  on 
the  earth.  Its  progenitors  flourished  with  the 
giant  ferns,  the  great,  rank  mosses,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  carbon-storing  vegetation.  A 
mighty  tree  was  our  little  rush  in  those  days, 
growing  several  hundred  feet  tall  and  spread 
ing  out  its  huge  whorls  of  branches  in  every 
direction.  So  we  find  it  today,  in  the  anthra 
cite  beds  of  the  eastern  slope.  What  hap 
pened  to  it  that  we  should  know  it  only  as 
this  degenerate  creature  of  the  bog? 


£t2O££XSZS33ES3: 


COURING-WEED 


In  the  carboniferous  age  the  air  surround 
ing  the  earth  "was  much  warmer  than  at 
present,  warmer  than  we  find  it  in  the  trop 
ics.  The  great  mass  which  constitutes  this 
globe  was  not  yet  cool  enough  to  support 
any  very  high  forms  of  life.  There  were  no 
trees,  as  we  now  understand  the  word,  and 
there  was  very  little  animal  life.  Beetles 
crawled  about,  spiders  and  scorpions,  and 
salamanders  big  as  alligators,  but  there  were 
no  mammals;  no  birds.  The  world  was  in 
twilight,  reeking  with  moisture,  steaming  in 
the  warm  air  which  it  filled  with  all  sorts 
of  noxious  gases.  It  rained  aquafortis  and 
brimstone,  and  the  sweating  earth  sent  these 
up  again  in  deadly  fog-banks  of  poisonous 
vapor. 

These  were  the  conditions  which  our  big 
rush  loved.  Its  huge  spongy  stem  and 
branches  drank  in  life  from  the  death-laden 
atmosphere.  Its  great  creeping  rootstocks 
soaked  it  up  from  the  morass  beneath,  and 
the  rush  grew  luxuriantly.  Its  office  was 
indeed  a  cleansing  one,  to  purify  the  atmos 
phere  and  make  it  fit  to  sustain  animal  life. 

In  time,  as  the  huge  primeval  trees  reached 
maturity,  they  died,  and  their  mighty  stems 
fell  back  into  the  bog.  Then  came  some  great 

47 


upheaval,  some  cataclysm  of  nature  such  as 
we  find  everywhere  recorded  in  her  rocky 
book.  The  land  rose  or  sank,  and  the  rocks 
and  debris  of  the  sea  floor  were  thrown  upon 
the  decaying  vegetation.  It  was  pressed  and 
compressed  beneath  this  weight.  The  fronds 
of  the  huge  ferns;  the  tall  stems  of  the  giant 
rushes;  the  monstrous  club-mosses,  massed 
together,  and  the  primeval  forest  became  a 
peat-bog.  Still  greater  pressure— a  longer 
lapse  of  aeons,  and  the  peat  became  coal. 

We  burn  them  now,  in  our  grates,  the 
progenitors  of  these  feeble  things  lying  here, 
limply,  in  my  palm.  Is  it  not  a  wonderful 
history  the  frail  thing  has?  A  degenerate 
stock,  botanists  call  it.  So  are  its  cousins  the 
ferns  degenerate,  with  no  botanical  Nordau 
to  sound  warning  against  them.  But  degen 
erates  though  they  all  are,  they  have  still  the 
spirit  of  the  pioneer.  They  dwell  in  the  out 
posts  of  vegetable  civilization.  We  do  not 
find  them  flourishing  where  Nature  is  hi  her 
gentlest  moods.  Once,  down  in  the  crater  of 
an  active  volcano,  half  a  mile  from  any  soil, 
growing  from  a  sulphur-stained  black-lava 
floor,  I  found  a  clump  of  waving  green  ferns, 
as  high  as  my  head,  spreading  out  their 
broad  fronds  as  though  to  cover  and  hide  the 


terrible  nakedness  of  the  unfinished  earth.  A 
thousand  years  from  now  a  grain-field  may 
spread  where  now  those  frail  green  plumes 
have  just  begun  their  gracious  work. 

The  clothing  of  the  earth  and  the  cleans 
ing  of  the  air  were  the  tasks  the  giant  rushes 
helped  to  perform  for  the  young  world.  Dur 
ing  the  process  the  rank  gases  of  the  atmos 
phere  were  gradually  stored  up  within  their 
great  stems.  Liberated,  now,  in  our  grates 
and  retorts  they  give  us  heat  and  light.  The 
atmosphere  become  purer,  the  earth  grown 
cool  and  life-sustaining,  new  growths  ap 
peared.  All  the  conditions  were  improved, 
but  the  improvement  meant  death  to  the  big 
rush.  It  was  starving. 

It  could  not  find  food  in  the  thin  air.  Its 
roots  could  not  suck  up  enough  moisture  to 
sustain  life.  It  became  smaller  and  smaller. 
Flowers  and  seeds  it  had  never  borne.  It 
now  gave  up  its  leaves.  Between  every  two 
whorls  of  branches  on  the  scouring-rush  we 
find  a  little  brown,  toothed  sheath  encircling 
the  stem.  In  the  days  of  the  plant's  pros 
perity  each  of  these  teeth  was  a  leaf,  but  now 
the  rush  can  maintain  no  such  extravagance 
as  leaves,  so  there  remain  only  these  poor  sur 
vivals.  The  stem  is  hollow,  and  is  divided, 

49 


between  the  whorls  of  branches,  into  closed 
sections,  or  joints.  It  has  also  an  outer  ring 
of  hollow  tubes,  through  which  moisture  is 
drawn  up  from  the  soil,  to  feed  the  branches. 
The  rush  is  a  little  higher  order  of  creation 
than  the  fern,  but  it  is  a  cryptogram;  that  is 
a  plant  never  bearing  true  seeds,  but  propa 
gating  by  spores. 

And  so,  fallen  upon  hard  lines,  chilled, 
stunted  by  the  cold,  but  having  a  brief  span 
of  life  when  the  spring  rains  have  made  the 
earth  wet  and  warm,  and  before  the  summer 
heat  has  come  to  wither  it,  we  have  our 
scouring-rush  only  a  few  inches  high.  And 
this  branched  stem  which  we  see  is  not  fer 
tile.  It  is  enough  for  it  to  support  its  wav 
ing  green  feather.  The  fertile  stems  are  not 
branched.  They  appear  above  the  earth,  pale 
and  shrinking;  put  forth  no  branches,  but  live 
a  brief  season,  develop  their  spores  and  dis 
appear. 

The  growth  of  the  scouring-rush  seems  to 
me  to  show  something  beautiful,  as  well  as 
interesting.  There  is  a  certain  light-hearted 
gaiety  in  the  waving,  tree-like  thing,  which 
makes  one  forget  that  it  is  a  degenerate  stock, 
and  doomed  to  destruction.  Still  a  little  work 
remains  for  it  to  do:  still  some  waste  places 

50 


E 


and  miasmatic  bogs  to  be  cleansed  and  puri 
fied,  and  so  the  little  rush  grows  on,  the  merest 
shadow  of  its  once  opulent  self.  I  am  sure 
that  the  last  horsetail  to  be  seen  on  earth 
will  grow  just  as  breezily,  as  greenly  and  as 
cheerily  as  any  now  waving  in  this  make- 
believe  enchanted  forest  at  my  feet.  And  who 
knows  what  may  be  the  fate  of  that  which 
was  the  real  life  of  that  ancient  plant— the 
forces  of  light  and  heat  set  free  in  our  furnaces 
and  forges,  to  begin,  again,  their  office  of  min 
istering  use  ? 

Did  the  giant  rush  die?  Does  anything 
die?  Ages  have  seen  the  rushes  fall  and  pass 
from  sight,  to  wake  to  glorious  light  in  the 
leaping  flames.  We  see,  each  year,  leaves  fall 
and  turn  to  mold  from  which  other  life-forms 
spring.  There  will  be  other  poppies,  next 
year,  where  yonder  orange-red  blossoms  nod 
in  the  breeze.  The  waving  grain,  already 
headed  out  and  bowing  under  its  burden  of 
rain-drops,  was  but  a  few  months  since  a  mere 
handful  of  dry  kernels.  They  were  cast  upon 
the  ground,  and  they  died,  if  that  tossing  sea  of 
green  is  death.  We  see  these  things  recurring 
upon  every  side  of  us,  yet  we  still  go  up  and 
down  the  earth  demanding  of  prophet,  priest 
and  poet:  "If  a  man  die  shall  he  live  again?" 

51 


A  far  cry  from  the  little  sprigs  of  scouring- 
rush  in  my  hand  ?  But  Life  is  a  far  cry,  from 
Everlasting  through  Eternity,  and  who  shall 
say,  of  the  least  of  these,  its  manifestations, 
"It  is  no  good?" 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 


I  N  G 


O  R  N 


OWN  among  the  watercresses, 
an  hour  ago,  studying  the  move 
ments  of  a  mammoth  slug,  I 
was  startled  by  a  shadow  fall 
ing  directly  across  my  hands. 
At  the  same  moment  there  was 
an  excited  flurry  and  scurrying 
to  shelter,  among  a  tuneful  mob  of  song- 
sparrows  who,  all  unmindful  of  my  presence, 
were  teetering  close  beside  me  upon  the  tall 
mustard  stalks  which  swayed  beneath  their 
weight.  Looking  upward  I  saw,  between  me 
and  the  sun,  a  pigeon-hawk  soaring  on  motion 
less  wings  in  the  freedom  of  the  upper  air. 
I  watched  him  with  a  joy  holding  no  drop 
of  envy,  as  he  circled  widely  against  the 
sky,  rising,  falling,  swerving,  returning,  with 
scarcely  a  dip  of  the  strong,  outstretched 
wings.  High  though  he  poised,  my  thought 
could  reach  him ;  strong  though  his  flight,  my 
fancy  could  follow  and  outstrip  him.  He,  high 
above  the  mountain-tops,  gazed  downward  to 
the  earth.  His  thoughts,  his  desires  were 
here.  To  materialize  them  he  mounted  the 
air.  With  my  feet  upon  the  earth,  with  no 
palpable  pinions  wherewith  to  climb  the  ether, 
yet  had  I  moments  of  being,  more  truly  than 
he,  a  creature  of  the  sky. 

55 


Something  of  this  passed  through  my  brain 
as  I  -watched  the  circling  hawk.  Once,  with 
a  flash  of  his  strong  wings,  he  made  a  down 
ward  turn  and,  swift  and  still,  he  dropped 
earthward.  Then,  as  if  frustrated  in  what 
ever  had  been  his  design,  he  wheeled  again 
and  climbed  as  swiftly  up  the  air.  I  like  that 
phrase  as  describing  the  flight  of  a  bird.  It 
is  so  literally  what  the  creature  does.  A  bird 
is  not  superior  to  gravitation.  But  for  that 
force  he  would  be  the  helpless  victim  of  every 
little  breeze,  like  a  balloon,  which  is  unable 
to  shape  a  course  or  to  do  anything  but  float 
helplessly  before  the  wind.  The  balloon  floats 
because  it  is  lighter  than  the  air,  but  the  air 
which  the  bird  displaces  is  lighter  than  he, 
and  he  only  moves  hi  it  by  virtue  of  his 
ability  to  extract  from  it,  by  the  motion  of  his 
wings,  sufficient  recoil  to  propel  himself  for 
ward.  He  rises,  as  do  we  humans,  by  means 
of  that  which  resists  him.  I  love  to  watch 
the  sea-gulls.  They  fly  so  perfectly,  and  seem 
anxious  to  give  us  lessons  in  aerial  naviga 
tion  as  they  dip  and  whirl  and  call  about  the 
steamers,  on  the  bay.  Their  wings  are  so 
easy  to  study  while  in  action.  The  first  joint, 
to  where  the  wing  bends  back  and  outward, 
is  strong  and  compact,  cup-shaped  underneath. 

56 


The  second  joint  tapers.  The  feathers  are 
long  and  do  not  overlap  so  closely  as  do  those 
of  the  first  joint,  and  at  the  free  ends  they 
spread  out  and  turn  upwards.  The  upper 
surface  of  the  wing  is  convex,  the  lower  sur 
face  concave.  In  flying  the  wings  are  thrown 
forward  and  downward.  Flying  is  not  a  flap 
ping  of  the  wings  up  and  down,  and  if  a  bird 
were  to  strike  its  wings  backward  and  down 
ward,  as  its  manner  of  flight  is  so  often  pic 
tured,  it  would  turn  a  forward  somersault  in 
the  air. 

Structurally  the  wing  of  a  bird  is  a  screw. 
It  twists  in  opposite  directions  during  the  up 
and  down  strokes,  and  describes  a  figure  of  8 
in  the  air.  The  bird  throws  its  wings  for 
wards  and  downwards.  The  air  is  forced  back 
and  compressed  in  the  cup-shaped  hollows  of 
the  wings,  and  these  latter,  by  the  recoil  thus 
obtained,  drag  the  body  forward.  This  resist 
ance  of  the  air  is  absolutely  essential  to  flight. 
We  who  think  that,  but  for  the  buffetings  of 
hard  fate,  we,  too,  might  soar  high  and  fly  free 
in  the  upper  realm  of  endeavor,  should  watch 
the  efforts  of  the  birds  in  a  calm.  We  shall 
scarcely  see  them  flying.  If  impelled,  by  neces 
sity,  to  flight,  the  process  is  a  most  laborious 
one.  There  being  no  resisting  wind  on  which 

57 


to  climb  (birds  always  fly  against  the  wind) 
the  climber  must,  by  the  rapid  action  of  his 
wings,  establish  a  recoil  which  will  send  him 
along.  Watch  the  little  mud-hen,  flying  close 
to  the  surface  of  the  water,  ready  to  dive  the 
instant  its  timidity  takes  fright.  Its  wings 
vibrate  swiftly,  unceasingly;  for  it  rarely  rises 
high  enough  above  the  water  to  have  advan 
tage  of  the  air  currents.  For  it  there  are  no 
long,  soaring  sweeps  through  the  air ;  no  free 
dom  from  the  labors  of  its  cautious  flight.  It 
is  a  very  spendthrift  of  effort  because  of  the 
timidity  which  never  lets  it  rise  to  the  sustain 
ing  forces  just  above  its  head.  To  climb  the 
sky  is  not  for  him  who  hugs  cover. 

To  fly!  the  very  thought  sets  the  nerves 
atingle.  It  is  a  joy  to  be  afloat,  "with  a  wet 
sheet  and  a  flowing  sea  and  a  wind  that  fol 
lows  fast."  It  is  a  joy  to  be  on  the  back  of  a 
swiftly  running  horse,  with  the  wind  rushing 
away  from  your  face  as  you  ride,  bearing 
every  care  from  your  brain.  But  to  traverse 
the  air— to  fly!  This  joy  we  long  for:  we  have 
an  indisputable,  an  inalienable  right  to  long 
for  it. 

To  what  heights  may  we  rise  ?  This,  after 
all,  is  the  question  which  concerns  us.  Sordid, 
creeping  wights  that  we  are,  constantly  refer- 

58 


ring  our  heavenward  aspiration  to  the  desire 
of  the  mortal,  we  still 

To  man  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body,  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

Our  very  protests,  our  kicking  against  the 
pricks  which  would  incite  us  to  higher  effort, 
are  but  our  blind  fear,  lest,  after  all,  they 
should  not  mean  flight.  We  are  afraid  of  our 
moments  of  faith;  ashamed  of  our  aspiring 
impulses,  the  upward  impulses  which  have 
throbbed  through  all  life  since  the  world  was 
born.  We  send  forward  our  souls  to  see  if 
haply  they  may  find  God,  while  we  remain 
behind  to  weigh  and  test  their  evidence  when 
they  return  to  us— if  they  ever  do  return, 
hugging  the  surface  the  while,  lest  a  sustain 
ing  breath  of  spiritual  force  lift  us  clean  above 
the  safe  shelter  into  which  we  may  dive  alto 
gether  should  our  returning  souls  bring  back 
news  of  the  meanings  of  life,  scaring  us  to 
cover,  after  all,  by  the  thought  that  we,  our 
selves,  are  heaven  and  hell. 

Usually  we  are  content  to  grovel.  We  trav 
erse  our  little  round  and  declare  it  to  be 
destiny.  We  prate  of  the  limitations  of  our 
humanity,  forgetful  of  that  humanity's  limit 
less  capacity  to  receive.  With  insincere  self- 

59 


abasement  we  declare  ourselves  to  be  worms 
of  the  dust,  and  the  spirits  of  light  who  look 
upon  us  may  readily  believe  our  assertions. 
But  there  are  moments  when  the  scales  fall 
from  our  eyes.  We  get  fleeting  glimpses,  then, 
of  the  meaning  and  the  end  of  our  human 
nature.  We  know  that  it  is  in  the  skies.  We 
know  that  we  have  ourselves  fashioned  the 
chain  that  binds  us  to  earth.  We  know  that 
we  were  made  for  flight,  and  we  know  that  we 
know  all  this ! 

Still  afar  in  the  sky  the  hawk  soars,  with 
downward  gaze  seeking  his  desire.  Still,  tho' 
my  feet  are  upon  the  earth,  my  spirit  fares 
upward  in  its  flight  toward  its  desire,  above 
and  beyond  the  strong-winged  bird's  farther- 
est  flight! 


60 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HILLS 


WONDER  whether  the  restless 
impulse  which  send  city  folk 
hillward  in  the  springtime  is 
not  a  part  of  the  Divine  Plan 
which  would  lead  us  all  to  lift 
our  eyes  to  the  hills  whence 
our  help  cometh.  They  flock 
up  here,  the  city  folk,  during  these  first  spring 
days,  to  eat  their  luncheons  by  the  roadside 
and  to  fill  their  hands  with  the  poppies  and 
wild  hyacinth,  the  blue-eyed  grass  and  pim 
pernel  that  everywhere  dot  the  young  mead 
ows'  glowing  green. 

I  hear,  at  nightfall,  mothers'  voices  calling 
the  little  ones  to  prepare  for  home-going,  and 
I  love  to  see  the  contented  parties  go  wander 
ing  down,  the  tiniest  tired  climber  usually 
sound  asleep  in  his  father's  arms,  with  the 
sun's  last  rays  caressing  the  small  face.  It  is 
good  for  them  to  be  here.  There  is,  in  the 
dumbest  of  us,  a  faint  stirring  of  recognition 
that  the  hope  and  promise  of  life  are  in  the 
young  year.  This  love  of  the  childhood  of 
things  is  the  best  thing  our  human  nature 
knows :  the  best  because  there  is  in  it  the  least 
of  self.  It  is  a  different  thing  from  the  love  of 
new  beginnings.  It  is  not  new  beginnings, 
but  first  principles  the  soul  seeks,  now,  and 

63 


so  we  climb  the  hills,  as  naturally  as  the 
daisies  look  upward,  leaving  behind  us  the 
pitiful  aims  that  end  in  self  and  belong  to  the 
dead  level. 

In  the  springtime  love  awakens,  born  anew 
in  the  green  wonder  of  the  season's  childhood. 
Yonder  where  the  road  climbs  the  hill  the 
sunlight  is  sifting  in  long  bars  through  the 
eucalyptus  trees,  making  a  brown  and  golden 
ladder  all  along  the  way.  In  everything  is  the 
fresh,  tender  suggestion  of  a  Sunday  after 
noon  in  springtime.  The  air  is  full  of  the 
scent  of  swamp-willow  and  laurel,  and  the 
breath  of  feeding  cattle  on  the  hills. 

By  the  roadside  He  and  She  walk  shyly 
apart.  They  could  scarcely  clasp  hands  across 
the  space  which  separates  them,  yet  one  see 
ing  them  knows  that  their  hearts  are  close 
together.  The  blue  sky  arches  over  them ;  the 
soft  clouds  pass  lightly  above  their  heads ;  the 
sunbeams  bring  brighter  rounds  for  the  brown 
and  golden  ladder  his  feet  and  hers  tread 
lightly.  They  are  palpably  "of  the  people." 
Her  hands  are  roughened  and  red  from  toil. 
His  shoulders  are  bent  by  the  early  bearing  of 
heavy  burdens.  Neither  He  nor  She  is  over 
twenty  years  old,  and  they  are  poor,  as  some 
count  riches,  but  to  them,  together,  has  come 


the  sweetness  of  life,  and  He  and  She  are  walk 
ing  on  the  heights. 

Yesterday  they  were  hut  a  boy  and  a  girl, 
hut  today  He  to  her  is  Manhood ;  She,  to  him, 
is  Womanhood,  and  in  this  great  human  wil 
derness  they  have  reached  out  and  found  each 
other.  Could  anything  be  more  wonderful  than 
this?  Could  anything  exceed  in  beauty  this 
secret  of  theirs  which  he  who  runs  may  read 
in  every  line  of  their  illumined  faces?  Stu 
dents  versed  in  the  'ologies :  sociologists,  phi 
lanthropists,  economists  and  progressionists  of 
every  sort,  we  know  all  that  you  would  say. 
We  have  heard  your  arguments  time  and 
again.  We  have  listened  to  your  statistics 
and  watched  the  shaking  of  your  head  over 
these  unions  of  the  poor.  But  the  wisdom  of 
life  is  wiser  than  men,  else  He  and  She  would 
do  well  to  listen  to  you  instead  of  walking 
together  here  on  the  hill  road.  They  do  not 
know  these  things  which  we  are  seeking  to 
reduce  to  what  we  call  social  science;  and 
if  they  should  know  them,  what  then?  Are 
they  not  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows  ? 

The  afternoon  shadows  lengthen.  Home- 
going  groups  are  beginning  the  long  descent. 
The  voices  of  little  children  calling  to  one 
another  ring  silverly  over  the  hillside.  He  and 

65 


She  are  not  hastening.  They  have  loitered 
along  to  where  a  bend  in  the  road  affords  a 
wide  outlook  upon  the  city  below,  the  gleam 
ing  bay,  the  'white-winged  ships  coming  in 
through  the  Golden  Gate,  the  distant  hills.  In 
her  hand  are  some  poppies  which  he  gathered. 
Down  to  the  western  horizon  sinks  the  sun. 
The  gold  has  faded  from  the  road,  leaving  it  a 
winding  ribbon  of  gray.  The  crests  of  the  hills 
and  the  gently  swelling  uplands  are  flooded 
with  crimson  light.  It  touches  the  eucalyptus 
trees  into  glory  and  flames  in  splendor  along 
the  western  sky.  It  lights  her  face  and  his  as 
they  stand  transformed  before  each  other. 
They  do  not  know  that  the  crimson  light  has 
made  them  beautiful.  They  think  the  beauty 
each  sees  is  the  other's,  a  part  of  their  won 
derful  discovery,  and  who  shall  say  that  either 
is  wrong?  It  is  we  who  are  blind,  and  not 
love.  Indeed,  love,  alone,  sees  clearly.  Exter 
nal,  temporal  conditions  have  made  his  body 
less  than  noble;  have  crossed  his  face  with 
dull,  heavy  lines.  They  have  narrowed  her 
mental  horizon  and  imprisoned  her  soul  in  a 
poor  little  cage,  but  He  and  She  are  held 
above  these,  now.  They  have  been  touched 
by  the  finger  of  God,  and  have  seen  each 
other's  beauty,  the  beauty  which  is  their 

66 


human  right ;  which  once  seen  is  never,  again, 
wholly  lost. 

The  crimson  has  faded  to  rose,  the  rose  to 
wonderful  green,  the  green  has  turned  to 
white.  The  early  moon  has  come  out  to 
light  the  hill.  Hand  in  hand  they  are  passing 
down  the  road.  Hand  in  hand  they  are  going 
through  life,  toiling  together,  bearing  together 
the  burdens  Fate  brings  to  them.  They  know 
not  what  these  may  be.  It  is  not  given 
them  to  know  the  future,  or  by  taking 
thought  to  lighten  its  ills  or  explain  the 
blunders  that  have  heaped  these  up.  They 
have  no  strength  or  power,  but  to  them  has 
been  given  love. 

Will  love  be  theirs  when  Spring  is  gone 
and  the  summer  drouth  is  upon  them;  when 
Autumn's  harvest  time  has  passed  them 
by  and  Winter's  breath  has  chilled  their 
blood?  Will  love  be  theirs  when,  hand  in 
hand,  in  the  uncertain  white  light,  they  jour 
ney  down  the  hill  of  life?  The  cynic  smiles 
at  the  question.  The  scientist  deprecates  it. 
Philanthropist  and  sociologist  shake  their 
heads.  Let  it  pass.  Love  is  theirs  now. 
The  universe  is  theirs,  for  each  to  each  is 
universal.  The  Life  of  the  universe  is  in 
them,  and  in  the  shimmering  radiance  which 


lights  the  way,  silvering  the  city  and  making 
long,  shining  paths  across  the  distant  water, 
they  are  walking  down  the  hill  road. 


68 


AT  THE  SMITHY  DOOR 


sunlight  pours  in  through 
the  wide  door  of  the  smithy 
and  lights  up  the  black  -walls 
and  rafters,  the  shining  anvil, 
the  invalid  vehicles,  the  broken 
wheels  and  half-wheels,  axles, 
ploughshares,  and  old  iron  scat 
tered  about,  and  the  forge,  with  its  smolder 
ing  fire,  its  tall  chimney  and  wheezy  bellows. 
The  delight  of  nature  and  the  joy  of  hand- 
craft  have  met  in  this  place. 

One  may  step  from  the  back  door  directly 
down  to  the  stream,  which  is  here  wide  and 
shallow,  with  gravelly  banks,  overhung  by 
great  sycamores  and  oaks.  From  time  to  time 
the  small  wild  life  of  the  woods  overflows  into 
the  shop.  A  brown  towhee  just  hopped  across 
the  threshold  and  pecked,  tentatively,  among 
the  scattered  hoof-parings  on  the  floor.  A  but 
terfly,  with  widespread  wings  of  black-and- 
white-and-orange,  rests  on  the  long  sweep  of 
the  bellows.  A  huge,  patient  farm-horse,  with 
crested  neck  and  heavily  feathered  fetlock 
joints,  looks  around  in  mild  interest,  as  the 
smith,  with  his  long  tongs,  draws  a  big  iron 
shoe  from  the  fire  and  starts  the  anvil  cho 
rus  ringing  accompaniment  to  a  shower  of 
sparks. 

71 


The  little  brown  bird  takes  flight  at  the 
sound  of  the  first  blow,  although  she  had 
apparently  been  unconscious  of  the  horse's 
restless  movements,  or  the  heavy  stamping  of 
his  feet.  The  horse  himself  might  be  par 
doned  a  small  degree  of  nervousness,  over  the 
clangor  and  the  blaze,  but  he  shows  no  fear. 
What  faithful,  friendly  toilers  for  man  these 
big,  narrow-brained  creatures  are,  with  their 
mild  eyes  and  enormous  strength !  They  seem 
to  have  no  knowledge  of  that  strength,  save 
as  it  serves  man ;  no  will  save  to  do  his  bid 
ding. 

The  craftsman  here  at  the  smithy  is  a 
French  Canadian,  who  learned  his  trade  as  a 
youth  in  a  little  village  of  his  country,  where 
the  blacksmith  was  the  town  oracle  on  all 
matters  temporal,  and  the  village  priest  kept 
watch  and  guard  over  the  things  of  the  spirit. 
He  is  superstitious  at  the  same  time  that  he 
is  shrewd,  but  simple  and  straightforward, 
taking  pride  in  his  work,  loving  the  animals 
he  shoes  and  dealing  fairly  with  all  men. 

"You  better  had  let  me  correct  that  bolt," 
he  says,  scanning  the  light  cart  of  a  stranger 
who  has  driven  up  to  ask  the  way  to  the 
next  village.  "He  may  lose  when  you  are 
away  far  off.  I  correct  him  in  just  one 

72 


instant."  He  suits  the  action  to  the  word 
and  then  smiles  at  the  idea  of  taking  pay 
for  a  thing  like  that.  "There  was  nothing 
broke.  I  just  correct  him.  He  might  break; 
might  never  hurt;  you  better  be  all  right." 
Such  is  his  idea  of  loving  the  neighbor. 

The  smith  would  be  filled  with  amaze 
could  he  know  how  admirable  he  is  as  he 
deftly  fashions  the  shoe  upon  his  anvil. 
There  is  something  in  manual  skill  which 
delights  the  sincerest  depths  in  each  of  us. 
Who  does  not  feel  a  certain  warm  pleasure 
in  watching  things  making?  I  used  daily  to 
pass  a  window  where  a  potter  sat  working 
at  his  wheel,  making  little  bean-pots.  His 
seemed  as  trivial  a  task  as  one  could  imag 
ine,  yet  he  was  never  without  an  audience. 
Workingmen  paused  to  consider  their  fellow 
at  his  craft.  Women  lingered  to  watch  the 
unfamiliar  sight.  Street  urchins  hung,  fas 
cinated,  about  the  window,  but  the  greater 
part  of  the  loiterers  were  business  men, 
wholesale  merchants  of  the  quarter,  grave 
bankers,  brokers,  lawyers,  men  whose  brains 
were  constantly  busy  with  large  affairs. 
These  could  seldom  pass  the  place  without 
stopping  to  gaze  at  the  whirling  wheel  and 
the  slender,  skilful  fingers  manipulating  the 

73 


clay  with  a  deftness  that  was  a  joy  to 
behold. 

The  pleasure  which  comes  from  handi 
craft  is  fundamental.  Note  how  quiet  even 
a  young  child  becomes  if  he  can  but  watch 
something  doing.  The  human  hand  is  fash 
ioned  for  constructing,  as  well  as  for  grasp 
ing,  but  we  are  likely  to  forget  this,  and  to 
suffer  through  the  forgetting,  in  the  hurry 
and  scramble  of  our  modern,  machine-made 
world.  We  need  a  return  to  first  principles; 
to  the  thoughtfulness,  the  delicacy,  the  sim 
plicity  which  come  from  doing  work  in  which 
head  and  hand  act  together.  It  is  not  wholly 
a  fad,  though  there  is  danger  that  it  may 
become  one,  the  modern  turning  of  so  many 
people  to  hand-work,  and  to  the  work  of 
olden  time,  for  beauty  of  line  and  of  struc 
ture.  Consciously  or  unconsciously,  we  come 
back  to  hand-craft  as  we  come  back  to  the 
soil,  for  the  renewal  of  purpose  and  of 
strength. 

It  is  not,  however,  because  it  is  old,  or 
primarily,  because  it  is  hand-wrought,  that  a 
thing  made  by  man  has  beauty.  We  can 
create  ugliness  with  our  hands;  we  are  doing 
it  in  these  days,  constructing  things  useless 
and  false,  for  the  mere  sake  of  construction, 

74 


missing  wholly  the  principles  of  use  and 
honesty.  In  early  days,  when  a  man  wrought, 
in  whatever  fabric,  he  made  things  as  a  man 
might,  with  straightforwardness,  until  they 
served  his  purpose.  He  ornamented  his  struc 
ture,  too,  as  he  could,  but  gave  no  thought  to 
the  construction  of  ornament.  Thus  the  old 
things,  things  crude  and  common  if  you  will, 
have  a  beauty  all  their  own,  because  they 
are  frankly  what  human  craft  could  attain 
to.  Their  sturdy  simplicity  of  line  appeals 
to  what  is  best  in  us.  We  call  their  designs 
quaint,  and  prate  of  artistic  values,  and  of 
aesthetics,  but  it  is  really  their  honesty  which 
touches  us,  and  that  which  is  honest  in  us 
stirs  to  response.  Machine-made  stuff  is  so 
often  cheap  and  meretricious,  not  because  of 
its  mechanical  lifelessness,  but  because  it  at 
tempts  too  much.  The  certainty  of  mechan 
ical  effort  has  tempted  us  to  artistic  sin.  The 
result  is  such  ugliness  and  hatefulness  as  are 
the  inevitable  accompaniments  of  all  sin. 

I  own  a  rough  gray  mug  of  commonest 
clay — the  simplest  thing  in  the  way  of  a 
vessel  that  the  human  hand  can  make, 
whirled  out  from  a  wheel  and  finished  with 
a  handle  of  clay,  thick  and  clumsy,  pinched 
up  from  the  lump  and  pressed  on;  but  in 

75 


shaping  this  handle  the  craftsman  drew  his 
thumb  and  fingers  down  its  length  and  fash 
ioned  it  into  a  curve  that  fits  to  the  hand 
like  a  familiar  glove.  It  lies  in  the  bent 
fingers  with  the  comfort  of  a  caress,  and 
the  thumb  falls  into  place  on  its  top,  just 
where  the  potter's  thumb  pressed  and  per 
fected  his  work.  The  marks  of  thumb  and 
fingers  are  plainly  visible  in  the  clay,  and  I 
never  take  the  cup  from  its  hook  without  a 
feeling  of  pleasure.  The  sense  of  kinship  in 
that  human  touch  makes  the  rough  fabric 
lovely.  Looking  at  it  the  user  realizes  that 
so  his  own  hand  would  have  lingered  and 
pressed,  had  the  cup  been  his  work.  What 
some  one  has  called  "the  imperfection  of 
human  effort"  becomes  the  perfection  of 
human  sympathy. 

The  sounds  from  the  woods  mingle  pleas 
antly  with  the  clangor  of  hammer  upon  anvil, 
and  the  shuffling,  restless  movements  of  the 
farm-horse.  Going  out  through  the  little  rear 
door  the  conditions  are  reversed;  the  sounds 
from  the  smithy  ring  silverly  above  the  run 
ning  of  the  water,  the  breathing  of  the  soft 
wind  in  the  trees,  and  the  peevish,  incessant 
call  for  food,  of  young  birds.  The  stream  is 
as  transparent  as  glass,  and  small  fresh- water 


crabs   go   skittering   along  on   the   gravelly 
bottom. 

The  canyon  is  full  of  peace  and  beauty,  and 
still  with  the  alert  stillness  of  an  afternoon  in 
the  full  springtide.  The  perfume  of  fruit- 
blossoms  fills  the  air,  and  the  whole  world 
thrills  with  ineffable  meaning,  like  an  angelic 
word.  The  big  farm-horse  has  been  shod 
and  is  now  tied  outside  the  smithy.  His 
owner  will  presently  come  and  lead  him 
home.  The  golden  afternoon  is  wearing  to  a 
close.  The  sun  is  hidden  behind  the  hills  as 
the  smith  secures  his  rough,  battened  door  by 
thrusting  a  padlock  through  a  staple  on  the 
outside,  shaking  it  to  see  that  it  is  secure  ere 
he  takes  his  way  homeward  through  the 
canyon.  I  hear  him  humming  a  bit  of  song 
as  he  goes.  Why  should  he  not  sing?  What 
said  the  gentle  sage  of  Vailima  of  the  essen 
tials  to  happiness  ?  "  To  earn  a  little ;  to  spend 
a  little  less;  to  be  kind;  to  be  honest;  to 
have  a  few  friends."  Then,  as  one  walks 
home  through  the  early  springtime  evening 
nature's  own  chorus  takes  up  the  song  and 
rounds  it  to  completion. 


»;!>. 


77 


THIS  EDITION  OF  UPLAND  PASTURES  WAS  DONE 
FOR  MESSRS.  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY  AT  THE 
TOMOYE  PRESS,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  IN  THE  YEAR 
NINETEEN  HUNDRED  &  FOUR.  NO  OTHER  EDITION 
WILL  BE  PRINTED  FROM  THE  TYPE  USED  HEREIN. 


YC   16096 


